


Reader Insert Drabbles

by TheWickedWench



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:03:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26279878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWickedWench/pseuds/TheWickedWench
Summary: Soft, fluffy drabbles/one-shots featuring Bucky Barnes and yourself. (Might be semi-regularly updated, may be completely discontinued, we'll see how I feel. If inspiration strikes, then hopefully I can get it out and post it here.) I just really want Bucky to be my boyfriend.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Reader, James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Kudos: 16





	Reader Insert Drabbles

Over, through, over, under three and pull. You take in a deep breath, willing yourself to calm down as you seek reassurance in the air that fills your lungs. The anxiety has been manageable lately, and you’re hoping that can continue a bit longer. Though knowing that Bucky will be gone on a mission this weekend, you’re worried you’ll be vulnerable. The last thing you wanted to spend your holiday weekend doing was having an attack without your husband to calm you. 

The soft music from your phone vibrated through the air beside you. The U.K. 1940s Radio Station was on a Glen Miller kick, and you didn’t mind. Soft but perky music filled the background, your favorite movie on an even lower volume. You needed noise to work to, noise to make the living room not feel so hollow. Buck was in the shower, you could hear the water running just through the wall. 

You didn’t want to make him nervous himself. You tried to be strong every time Fury called him off to some undisclosed location. But it had been nearly two months since his last mission. Saving the world was even trickier business lately, what with the world gone topsy-turvy. You’d been spoiled having Bucky home every night, waking up to his arm wrapped around you each morning. It was all the things any other normal couple got to experience. The two of you had fallen into a routine of sorts, even if you were still adjusting to post-furlough life. 

The past two years, you’d hustled. Harder than you’d ever had to in your life, and it was just finally starting to pay off. You’d been hired at your dream company, meeting all the right people and you were fairly certain a promotion wouldn’t be far off. At least until the world decided to abruptly screech to a halt. Even knowing there was nothing you could do to control it, you still felt like it was some form of cruel punishment. Maybe if you’d just worked harder, taken more initiative somehow, you wouldn’t have been furloughed. 

For the first time in your life, you truly had nothing to do. You spent your days at home, reading, practicing yoga, watching every movie on your list. There wasn’t anything left on any streaming platform that you didn’t think you hadn’t already touched. This was the temporary “new normal.” And as Glen Miller evaporated into a sweet young Frank Sinatra number, you realized you yearned for a time that seemed simpler. It was an immature, petty thought, but at least when America was at war, things on the home-front ran relatively normal. People still went to work. 

Over, through, over, under three and pull. The sweater you were crocheting was coming along nicely. There was more time for things like this. Honing your crocheting skills, forever grateful you had a grandma that taught you as a teen, and trying your hand at sewing. You had the time. 

“Watching you do that reminds me of when ma would patch up the holes in my clothes as a kid,” a voice interrupted you. 

Bucky. 

He was freshly washed, hair still damp from his shower. Navy pajama pants slung low on his hips, a white tank hugging his upper body. Your eyes lingered on the dog tags that lay tucked beneath, in your favorite patch of dark hair.

He wore a sweet smile, and for a minute, you wondered how he still looked like the soldier you’d had a crush on in history class. The daring, brave, handsome Sergeant Barnes. It had taken you over a year of dating to tell him that you cut out his picture of your textbook in the ninth grade. To which he laughed it off, teasing you that he was just waiting for you in Cryogenic Sleep back then. 

When you didn’t answer though, he came closer. 

“Y/N/N? Sweetheart?” 

You looked back to your crocheting project, then back at Bucky. The blue light from the TV gleamed off his metal arm. 

“Oh. Sorry. My anxiety is acting up,” you said. Truth was the best route. 

Bucky’s face fell, but gingerly took your yarn and crochet hook from you, setting it on the empty space next to you. He knew well enough that you didn’t like to be crowded or touched tightly when you were going through an anxious bout. He knew all about how it felt to be claustrophobic. 

But he also knew that you didn’t like sitting still with all that extra energy. So he’d compromise. 

“Stand up for me, baby doll,” he urged. His voice was like butter. 

Cautiously, you stood. Slowly. Your head was fuzzy and your body felt weak. You prayed the nausea wouldn’t return. 

You took his outstretched hand, to which he held as gentle as if you were made of porcelain. The TV went on mute, and Frank Sinatra turned into Doris Day. Inhaling deeply again, you picked up on the warm and cozy scent of that new pumpkin candle you’d bought. Bucky must’ve lit it before he stepped in the shower, because you certainly didn’t remember doing so. Maybe he’d been planning this impromptu consoling session all along. He knew you so well. 

“Dance with me?” he asked. 

You made a soft hmm sound, but lightly put your other hand atop his shoulder. The cool metal beneath your palm helped ground you. The warmth in his right hand reminded you that he was real, and he was there, and both of you were safe. He didn’t pull you to him, chest to chest, not like he would’ve preferred. But he knew you needed space. He would sweetly try his best to coax you from your head, where he knew how dark and convoluted it could be. His wasn’t much different. Even all these years later. 

“Say "nighty night" and kiss me  
Just hold me tight and tell me you'll miss me,” he sang. 

His voice was lower than usual, sleepy. Beyond his shoulder, you read the clock that said 11:39a.m. 

“You know my dad used to dance with Rebecca to this song when she was little,” he whispered. 

Again, you acknowledged his story was a Hmm. Talking during these bouts was too much energy. 

“Ma would try to get me to dance with her. Tell me that one day I’d be glad they made me practice dancing in the kitchen. Ma said a fella could get any girl he wanted, as long as he could dance.” 

The music lifted your heart toward his, the bout beginning to lessen its grip on you. Magical Bucky. Always chasing away your shadows. Sweet, soft Bucky. Rubbing the back of your hand with his thumb. Reassurance. Strength. 

“Sweet dreams till sunbeams find you  
Sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you  
But in your dreams, whatever they be  
Dream a little dream of me”

You breathed in again, grazing your nose to his neck. Home. The vibrations of his voice echoed through his throat, his chest. The press of his dog tags against you. Another press, this time of his lips to your crown. Airy, sleepy, a silent promise. 

“I’ll be back before you know it, baby,” he swore. 

“I know,” you exhaled. Your voice still cracked slightly, but the effort to speak was progress itself. “I’m sorry I worry you.” 

Bucky continued the pleasant rocking back and forth, dancing to a new song now. 

“We’re married,” he reminded you, a slight smile to his tone. “It’s our jobs to worry about each other, Mrs. Barnes.” 

This made you smile too. You tried to burrow into his neck further, wanting to just crawl under his skin and stay there. Where you were safe and loved. 

“I just miss you,” you murmured. You were muffled by his shirt. 

“I know, doll, I know. Me too.” 

You stayed like that for some time. Dancing the anxieties away, dancing that extra energy away. Your eyes started to droop closed when you felt Bucky bend and cradle you, your feet suspending off the ground. Immediately your arms snaked around his neck, head tucked into him even more. He smelled like your coconut soap,-- his ran out last week. Neither of you managed to remember to pick up more on the last grocery trip. 

You must’ve grumbled something akin to “what’re you doing?” because Bucky chuckled and kissed your cheek. 

“Time to get this pretty little thing to bed, yeah? You were falling asleep on me there, darlin’,” he answered. 

You gave another Mmm. 

As he carried you to your shared room, you curled into him close. He was strong, reliable, intelligent. He read you like a reader re-reads their favorite book for the tenth time. He knew every line, every little tear on the page and had his own annotations. You couldn’t have been more lucky to find someone as incredible as him. Oh, sometimes you only wished you could go back and tell your ninth grade self how much she had to look forward to. 

Bucky softly set you down in bed, only pulling up the thin sheet to your waist. Your anxiety may have waved off, but that didn’t mean you were in the all clear yet. He’d wait until you were fast asleep to cover you properly. He didn’t want to rewake you and let the claustrophobia creep back in. 

Instead, he discarded his own pants before he moved onto yours. Pulling your cotton shorts down over your ankles, he tossed them at the foot of the bed atop his. Looking back to you resting your head on the pillows, breathing rhythmically and deeply, he smiled. Almost as bright as the moon outside. Beaming with helpless adoration at you. His best girl. 

Of course he’d worry about you while he was away. He’d do everything in his power to return home safe to you, as always. It was only for three nights. 

Three nights and he’d be back here, in this bed, with you. 

With you and your little crochet projects and the music you insist on always listening to. Saying it made you feel cozy. The same music he grew up listening to, and he couldn’t disagree. It was cozy.


End file.
